From the Editors

Shorts from our editorial team

You can tell by looking into their eyes. There’s a mildly crazed look, half sleep deprivation, with a dash of jetlag, mixed with just a soupçon of excess, garnished with a rasping throat.

Autumn is the time of year when the big consumer fairs, cocktail competitions and trade shows all crash together like mastodons, the fallout from the collision felt in the liver of each participant. We carry the battle scars with pride.

Not that I’m complaining; I’d rather be doing this than working down a mine – or working anywhere come to think of it. The close proximity of the shows does, however, produce a blurring effect which makes you – hopefully – see things in a new way.

It started as ever with Whisky Live Paris, which was – as the report will tell you – as inspiring as ever. It also seeded the idea of a breaking down of barriers. I’m old and grey enough to recall the times when ‘other spirits’, indeed ‘other whiskies’ were relegated to a different room, then rooms and then a wing.

Now, while there are zones containing each category people flow naturally from one to the other, pausing from their dramming to taking a Cognac here, a grappa there, now a rum or three, and then downstairs for gin. In one sense it was liberating. In another, you couldn’t help but wonder what Scotch’s role might be in this new egalitarian world.

Class act: Diageo World Class finalists didn’t shy away from Scotch

Twenty-four hours later I was sheened with sweat beside a Miami swimming pool watching the global finals of Diageo’s World Class competition, the world’s toughest test for bartenders.

Scotch has steadily inveigled itself into the event. Rarely used in early years, it now has equal billing with other quality spirits. No eyes widen when a bartender reaches for a single malt or blend to make a drink.

This year, Scotch again had its own challenge, as evil a test as I have witnessed. The finalists had to identify whiskies in a blind tasting, then dissect a blend and say what percentage of each whisky was in it, before plotting said blend on a flavour map, tasting a cocktail made with the blend and saying what the other component parts were. Impossible? Damn right.

Even though I always thought the idea of blending was to subsume individuality in favour of unity, thus making separation well-nigh impossible, this was still fiendishly difficult. Anyone who did well has a palate to die for, so step forward the winner of the challenge, Dandelyan’s Aidan Bowie.

As well as surreptitiously sipping mezcal (as any sensible person should), we talked Scotch, its future and the way in which throughout its history it has always been flavoured, mixed and lengthened.

Our weapons? An ‘improved’ Mamie Taylor made with Johnnie Walker Red (which like most standard blends is intended to be drunk long) and what has become a standby, Lagavulin and Coke. Before anyone writes in complaining about the latter – guys, it works as a combination but it is not the only way to drink this malt, merely an option.

If Scotch is to grow its presence behind the bar, then there has to be an acceptance that it has a role to play in mixed drinks as well as being excellent when taken neat, with rocks or water. Those who want to enjoy a single malt on its own are right – it is an amazing multi-faceted drink. But it is the fact that it is an amazing multi-faceted drink that means it has a role to play in bartending when used in a considerate and judicious manner.

Anyhow, from there it was overnight to London for the Whisky Show where the balance, as Angus MacRaild rightly points out, was perfectly struck between the ultra-rare ‘dream drams’ – the Bowmore class featuring Tempest, 1970s Deluxe, 25-year-old Small Batch, 30-year-old Sea Dragon, Black Bowmore and 1964 will go down in legend (and more on this later) – and new releases.

The Whisky Show: Imbibers were brought together by their love for Scotch and other whisky styles

Like Paris, this wasn’t restricted to Scotch. Amrut appeared with a 100% malted rye, there was Westland’s Garryana oak and the English Whisky Company’s pot still grain to name but three on the floor. In the ‘three masters’ class, Suntory’s Shinji Fukuyo blew us all away with the first all-Mizunara (Japanese oak) blend, which had that restless innovator Dr Bill Lumsden of Glenmorangie salivating.

As with Paris, or Miami, there was a sense of tectonic plates continuing to shift. It is not as simplistic as Scotch being under threat, rather that the drinker is more open-minded as to where their whisky (or beverage) comes from. Prejudices are being shelved; quality and character rule.

This, as I’m sure I’ve said before, offers a great opportunity for Scotch. Rather than just leading, it can build on this interest and further develop its own identity.

That’s one to ponder on my way to Bar Convent Berlin today following last week’s annual London Cocktail Week...

We walk down the hill, detectors aloft, waiting for the click as the orange glow of Brighton dips away. The sun has gone. Sheep sit like boulders in the grass; a crow on a fencepost pretends to be an owl. It’s a time of settling down and seeming silence.

I did my first bat walk on Islay, leaving the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) centre at Loch Gruinart and heading along the road towards the loch in the gloaming, as long-eared and pipistrelle bats flitted out of farm buildings and started dive-bombing us for the mealworms we were flinging into the darkening air. When we arrived home, we bought two bat detectors to reveal this invisible sound world.

As we pass the badger sett, the bat calls start sounding like some strange mutant dub, growing in intensity as we group together in a little glade listening as they loop crazily above our heads, caught in torch beams guzzling gnats, fattening up for a long sleep. A tawny owl, hidden in the trees, starts murmuring.

Nocturnal behaviour: Can the sights and sounds of silent distilleries be recorded, like bats?​

This magical little place is Balsdean. It was once a hamlet – just two farms, some workers’ cottages and a Norman chapel. The chapel went first, converted into a barn. One of the farms was next, spending time as a lunatic asylum. The final farm was evacuated in 1940 and the buildings used as target practice by the Canadian infantry.

Nothing is left; a community gone, leaving the hollow to the bats, owls, shapeshifting crows and startled sheep.

It’s strange how fragile things are, how places can just be wiped away; made invisible. It happens with whisky too. The Balsdean bats reminded me of a chat I’ve been having with photographer Sean Dooley about a potential project.

Not a catalogue and history of lost distilleries – that has been well-charted by Brian Townsend (there’s a new edition of his excellent book just out) – but how silent stills act as palimpsests, images of empty spaces, an examination of the untrustworthy nature of memory.

Is a former distillery site always just that, or does the space change as its former use is forgotten? Can echoes still be heard in each location? What sort of detector do we need for that? A camera? Words?

Thoughts about silent stills were floating about anyway, what with Brora and Port Ellen making their annual reappearance at the 2016 Diageo Special Releases tasting, the ghosts at the feast. I’m doing a tasting of two 50-year-old Karuizawas later today. The same applies there.

Drinking whiskies from silent stills becomes a process of exhumation because the distilleries only live in the taste. With each sip there is one less mouthful in the world, with each swirl of the glass more aromas are released never to return. With each year, the men who worked there dwindle.

Perhaps there’s little surprise that when we encounter whiskies such as these we lapse into sentimentalism and reverence. Critical faculties are suspended because we have all been brought up not to speak ill of the dead.

Better, surely, not to mourn but celebrate, and when tasting them meditate on the transience of things and the invisible world.

Late night in downtown Bangalore: street food carts and alleys, electrical shops and eye clinics, faltering neon. Push through crowds along rutted pavements, with the constant pulse of horns and drone of motorbike engines, down some steps into a blasted out concrete bunker with a warren of side rooms.

Men – all men – move in a strange choreography, weave and dodge to the high bar, order from the pink shirted barkeep, hands blurring as a tetra pak of local whisky is bought, corner snipped, its contents poured into a glass, topped with water and brought to mouth.

Some slam it back, some take three gulps and others stand in groups talking. More take their place – order, hand over notes, take the packet, snip, pour, top up, drink… and repeat.

Apart from one guy who buys two miniatures of 100 Pipers for his ritual serve, everything served was local. This is whisky drinking Indian style.

Why isn’t Scotch breaking through? Look around. ‘We have two sorts of connoisseurs,’ my friend Vikram tells me. ‘The single malt ones and these guys. Don’t be fooled. They know what they want and if you alter your whisky in any way, they will tell you. Their fathers drank this brand, and their grandfathers.’

With Scotch three times as expensive as the local whisky, it looks like a tough road for many brands – but I’m not concerned here about strategic approaches for Scotch. Daniel Jones has done that recently (and if you haven’t read his piece yet, I recommend that you do, here). Instead, standing there in the noise and elbow jostle it made me wonder what we think of when we think of whisky, and what that response says about our own prejudices.

Logic suggests that the best place to see how whisky is drunk is where the bulk of whisky is consumed – call it a pub, dive bar, cantina, shebeen, or these ‘retail’ and ‘wines’ in India. You find them in almost every country – the hole in the wall where people have always congregated to drink, sing, debate and laugh. Places of domino tile slam and noise, camaraderie and purposeful drinking.

The whisky could be a taken from a bottle on a table, or in bulbous glasses littering the bar; in half-pints of Highballs in red-faced, sleeved-shirt, smoke-filled izakayas beside the tracks in Japan, or here in the dim light of snip and drink India. You don’t find out how South Africa drinks whisky by cowering in five star hotel bars in Sandton, but by going to Sowetan shebeens.

What whisky? What we call ‘standard’ brands. Whisky might have gained credibility and momentum when it became an acceptable middle class drink but it has continued to be built in places like these, and by brands such as these.

As a category, Scotch cannot survive on cocktails or high-priced single malts. There always has to be something (and by extension someone) doing the heavy lifting, and that will be what is known as – often dismissively – ‘standard’ blends.

Whisky grew thanks to Jack or Jim, or the two Johns – Jameson and Walker. (Enough of the Js, Ed). Yes, single malt is vital to the growing health of Scotch. It widens the notion of what whisky is (and can be), pulls in new drinkers, gussies the image up, and it will continue to have a growing influence. But – and it’s a big but – the importance of the ‘standard’ brand remains crucial.

It’s also worth pausing to consider what ‘standard’ means – a word for the basic, or instead something which sets a standard? Don’t sneer at them, don’t dismiss them, because when you do, you insult the people who drink (and make) them.

Was it a surprise that Sazerac stepped in? Initially, perhaps, but when you take a look at how it has developed its Bourbon portfolio – almost single-handedly creating a super-premium sector – you can begin to see why it views The Last Drop as a natural partner to brands such as van Winkle (which it distributes), Blanton’s and its annual Antique Collection limited release series. The firm was quite open in claiming that buying The Last Drop will ‘allow [it] to extend its portfolio into the super-premium, craft market’.

It is certainly good for The Last Drop. The issue for firms such as this is, obviously, access to stock. The Last Drop is well named as it specialises in the rarest of the rare – precious and unusual whiskies. The advantage of this business model is that they are able to supply what few others can.

Unusual offerings: The Last Drop specialises in the rarest of rare spirits

Its drawback is that, by their very nature, these whiskies are in short supply – mere dribbles in some cases. How can you grow a business which stands on the pinnacle of the finite? The answer, it would seem, is investment from a larger player.

It’s a good deal for both sides, giving Sazerac a small but snazzy string to its bow and access to this top-end market, while The Last Drop now has the capital to grow its business and, one would assume, widen the remit further (it has already bottled a Cognac) outwith Scotch.

Already, the naysayers are bemoaning another Scotch whisky firm falling into foreign hands. I’d look at it from the other side. Why are American firms investing (again) in Scotch? In the past few months we’ve had Brown-Forman buying BenRiach. Now, albeit on a smaller scale, here comes Sazerac (and I wonder if this is the only purchase it will make).

They have done so, not because both Scotch firms were being sold at bargain-basement prices, but because Scotch added something to their portfolio.

Firms like these don’t buy into categories which are staid, boring and in decline. They want to invest in ones which are dynamic and which will benefit their bottom line – this is business, guys, not altruism. Scotch has prestige; it has heft. It’s not a stolid, dependable, performer but a drink which people continue to be excited about.

It’s often hard to discern what any of these deals mean to whisky drinkers. I mean, does it matter to us who owns a whisky as long as it is still made and we can still buy a bottle?

What the two American purchases do give us is an indication of how the world sees Scotch whisky – as a drink with a bright future; at the top end, Sazerac says; and with single malt, chips in Brown-Forman.

Scotch isn’t in decline. It isn’t moribund, but in good health and is a drink which people – be they in the corporate world, or bellying up to a bar somewhere – continue to believe in.

Now that is more relevant to the drinker than the intricacies of finance.

Recently, I misread a review of Beyoncé’s tour which said: ‘She whips the crowd up by getting them to chant: “I slay! I slay!”’ For a moment, I thought she was outing herself as an Ardbeg fan. It wouldn’t have surprised me. I mean, who doesn’t love Islay? I do, for starters: the place, the people, the whiskies. It’s an endlessly fascinating, layered place that goes way beyond peat and spirit.

Why, though, are people so obsessed with building distilleries there? There are three projects under consideration at the moment – Hunter Laing’s Ardnahoe proposal is due to be discussed by councillors in the next few weeks – and there might be more. In fact, by the time the Islay bush telegraph gets hold of this piece, we’ll be hearing that there’s 12 new stills planned.

The question is: why Islay? There is a theory that the most profitable place to start a new ice cream shop in a seaside town is not at the other end of the prom from an existing establishment, but right next-door.

Starbucks operates on much the same principle. Build a distillery on Islay and you, the theory goes, benefit from the halo effect. If you’re near to a famous distillery, then surely something will have rubbed off?

Aren’t we in danger of getting Islay distillery overload? How many variations on the Islay theme can you get? How much more land is there – or, to be more precise, how much more water is there?

Islay, for all that you might have read and maybe experienced, is not blessed with infinite supplies of water. In fact, in many places it’s scarce. That restricts the number of sites which can be built, and also their capacity.

The other aspect to consider is: how do these new distilleries cut through? If there are eight established distilleries, each with its own character (in fact more, if you factor in the peated/unpeated variants at Bruichladdich, Bunnahabhain and Caol Ila), where will your point of difference be? More peaty? More Ardbeggy? Less?

If you build it…: Hunter Laing’s Ardnahoe plans are up for discussion soon

Speaking personally, I’d rather be the first distillery on Colonsay than the ninth, 10th or 11th on Islay. That would give me a point of difference immediately. Actually, I might not build on Colonsay, tempting though it is, as it already has a decent wee brewery and semi-regular transport links to the mainland – needed for supplies and, let’s not forget, tourists.

The outer isles have possibilities, as Harris and hopefully Barra will demonstrate, though St Kilda might be a push. Mull could support a second still, but water issues might make it tricky for a third one on Skye. Building on Raasay, seen in this light, makes a lot of sense.

I’d probably head to Tiree. I said as much to someone who was thinking of building on Islay. ‘Where’s Tiree?’ they said. Maybe that’s part of it. Most of Scotland’s islands are insulae incognitae to many whisky lovers because they don’t have distilleries on then.

The name Tiree, some believe, comes from the Gaelic Tir-iodh land of corn, or Tir-I the granary of Iona. It is the sunniest spot in Britain; it’s also the windiest. It’s fertile as well – hence the name – allowing the possibility of using some locally grown barley. It also has previous, which in itself is a salutary tale of whisky-making in the late 18th and early 19th century.

Up until 1786, most of the farms on Tiree were making whisky, which was either being drunk on the island, used as rent money, or exported (up to 300 gallons a year went off the island).

There appear to have been two legal distilleries in 1790, using local and imported barley, but these seem to have stopped with a failure of crops in 1794. Illicit distillation did, however, continue.

At the same time, the 5th Duke of Argyll was trying to ‘improve’ the island, shifting it away from the old ‘run-rig’ agricultural system and towards crofting and industries such as kelp farming, which would in turn make him more money..

Rather than seeing a distillery as a potential source of revenue (like Talisker or Clynelish), the Duke clamped down on illicit whisky-making which, as in other parts of Scotland, was the easiest way for farmers to pay their now rising rent. He also wished to sell the barley himself on the mainland (actually, barley was being shipped off the island – destination Ireland, where it was being used to make illicit whiskey!).

In 1801, 157 men were convicted of illicit whisky-making and, in a letter to Malcolm McLaurin, Chamberlain of Tiree, in June that year the Duke’s instructions were laid out:

‘His Grace is pleased to order…that every tenth man of these 157 be deprived of their present possessions & of all protection from him in the future…it is left to Major Maxwell & you to select the ring-leaders & and most idle and worthless, or to lay the punishment on the whole 157 by lot as you think best.’

By then, people were leaving the island.

The Duke appears to have had a slight change of heart and tried to set up a legal distillery, but no-one wanted to work it, and so whisky-making on Tiree ceased. Probably.

Anyway, it’s high time this situation was redressed, which is why it’s Tiree for me. Anyone want to crowdfund me?

It’s my own fault, of course. I’ve rambled on for ages about how whisky (anywhere in the world) has links with culture and place, which run deeper than the surface gloss of brand. So now I’ve been asked, politely, to prove it.

This has led me down some pretty interesting rabbit holes of enquiry, looking at how certain cultures ‘read’ the idea of quality and beauty; the logic being that if whisky is a cultural product, then its creation has parallels with other areas of craftsmanship (don’t get me started on the whole ‘craft’ issue… well, not this week anyway).

It’s a vast topic which bifurcates into various other realms, such as the manner in which these crafted objects can be appreciated for their quality which, again, provides us with some salient points regarding how we assess a whisky.

One of the key texts was Sōetsu Yanagi’s The Unknown Craftsman. Yanagi was a Japanese philosopher and the founder of the Japanese ‘folk craft’ movement (mingei) in the 1920s, which brought a new focus on the quality and beauty of simple, honest objects made by craftsmen working in a centuries-old tradition.

Yanagi argued that ‘seeing is a born facility, knowledge is acquired’, and that intuition is more important than clinical application of theory. Often our spontaneous response – that tug of appreciation led by the eyes and heart – is overwhelmed by ‘the owner with the foot-rule [who] is immediately busy with a dozen questions as to age, authenticity, previous ownership, technique and the like’. In other words, appreciation is easily blurred by an analytical approach.

He doesn’t dispute that the questions over provenance are important and should be asked. Rather they should be used ‘only if they lead to better appreciation of the object’.

We know what is good. ‘The ancients did not follow the judgements of others, they did not love a piece because it was old, they just looked at it directly [with] unclouded, intuitive perception.’

I couldn’t agree more. The key when tasting whisky – there’s some on the table behind me as I write – is to look at each glass honestly, openly and without any prejudice. The age (if given) is a guide to assess the interaction between cask and spirit, the distillery name is a clue as to the character from that place, but elements like these are always in the background.

Ultimately, the liquid is the liquid; the only thing which matters is how you react to it. For all the analytics, at some point you have to say, it speaks to me… or it doesn’t. Shelve prejudice; see it honestly and with open senses.

As Yanagi wrote: ‘Put aside the desire to judge immediately, acquire the habit of just looking. Do not treat the object as [one] for the intellect. Be ready to perceive passively without interposing yourself.’

Okakura Kakuzō: Author of The Book of Tea

His urging was hardly new. In his 1906 treatise, The Book of Tea, Okakura Kakuzō wrote how ‘a Chinese critic complained many centuries ago [that] “people criticise a picture by their ear”’. In other words, they listen to critics, they follow fashion and they shelve their own judgements because others who are allegedly better-versed in the subject have decreed what is good… and bad.

If this is to be the case, then doesn’t it make things slightly awkward for a whisky writer? After all, we live in an era where the foot-rule of scores rules, and where age, distillery name and era all seem to matter more than the liquid.

Don’t get me wrong, we still need critics, but those of us who read and use them – be it on art, music, theatre, food or whisky – have to ultimately judge the object with our own senses. As Kakuzō wrote: ‘We classify too much, and enjoy too little.’

Read the words, not the numbers; take advice, but trust your palates and intuition – and enjoy.

While writing this, I’m ensconced in a farmhouse close to Arcos de la Frontera which is, conveniently enough, a mere 30 minutes from the delights of Jerez. This means that, for purely professional reasons, much Sherry is being consumed.

The Nomad bodega: Bridging the gap between Sherry and Scotch

It’s been too long since I was in Jerez. I was here on a frequent basis during my wine writing days and for a couple of spirits-related visits, but then the trips seemed to dry up. Hey, these things happen. It didn’t mean I stopped drinking Sherry.

It was a time when bodegas were closing, and the Sherry industry was caught in seemingly terminal decline. The producers maintained their passion and belief in quality, but the world seemed to have gone deaf to their appeals.

It was also a salutary lesson on the lack of influence of writers. Every year we would write articles on how versatile and remarkable Sherry (or Port, or German wine) was, and every year all these sectors would lose more cases.

And now? Bartenders are in love with Sherry, chefs and sommeliers praise its ability to partner food and, more importantly, a new generation of drinkers is discovering its complex delights. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

Sherry’s symbiotic relationship with Scotch runs deep, and yet it’s long struck me that the two industries have never quite understood each other fully.

Yes, there is the Sherry cask, but there is considerably more to discover about what that actually is, and how the whisky industry ended up with the type of casks it now uses. Whisky lovers who love Sherried whisky have quite often never tried Sherry. There is a huge opportunity for closer links and joint efforts.

Maybe things are changing. What was scheduled to be a two-hour trip around González Byass’ bodega with the firm’s charming ambassador Alvaro Platos ended up being in excess of four hours as we tasted, talked and shared.

The visit included a look at the Nomad bodega that houses a blend made by Richard Paterson of Whyte & Mackay, which was married in oloroso casks in Scotland, then shipped to Jerez for a second period of finishing in PX. It’s not legally Scotch (obviously) but it is a drink which forms another bridge between Scotland and Jerez.

Hybrid whiskies are becoming more common and, while some don’t work because the impulse is a contrived one, Nomad does because it is a genuine collaboration between winemaker and whisky blender. More on that later.

Talking of collaborations, I’ve just been told that the recent whisky rancio talk has been given the Golden Spirit Award as the top-rated seminar at this year’s Tales of the Cocktail. It, too, was a joint effort – Ryan Chetiyawardana’s genius with flavour and ease of explanation about bartending skills and philosophy; and the extraordinary ability of restaurant Noma’s Arielle Johnson to explain microbiology in a way that all could understand.

We had thought that we might be able to entice 60 geeks into a small room. Instead, we sold more than 200 tickets. I think that shows how deep the desire for knowledge about Scotch is, and in turn how to use that information to make ever greater drinks.

It demonstrated the links which could exist between cutting-edge food science, blending and bartending, and how that could then be applied in practical ways to enthuse even more people about whisky’s flavours.

None of it would have been possible without the backing of Ewan Morgan, the national director of the Masters of Whisky programme, who saw the opportunities within what was a pretty arcane area and gave us access to hugely expensive blends to prove our points – the moment when Chetiyawardana and I poured Johnnie Walker Blue Label and King George V into giant orange buckets will live with me forever. He, and Diageo's Dr Nick Morgan, also helped us tap the brains of Maureen Robinson and Keith Law at Carsebridge.

It all showed how powerful education can be and why brand-focused activity can only be one aspect of a wider engagement with a new whisky-loving community. It was, it strikes me now, in line with what the Masters of Whisky programme was all about.

And now, if you don’t mind, the internet is being turned off. There’s a cold copita with my name on it.

To say that the news of the axing of the Masters of Whisky programme came as a shock would be an understatement. I’ve had the privilege to work with most of the ambassadors, either here in the UK or in the US, and know how dedicated and talented they are in teaching people – be they consumers or trade – about the ways of whisky.

I know they will all get jobs, but that isn’t the point. The issue here is the rejection on Diageo’s part of a proven educational model. No matter how it is dressed up, there has been a strategic shift away from education, to delivering sales-oriented ‘experiences’ – a very different thing.

The initiative unlocked the multifarious secrets of whisky. That lock is now rusted, opportunities sealed up, jobs lost, and disillusionment rife. The diminishing of the importance of education removes everything special about Scotch (and, by extension, all whiskies and premium spirits).

It rejects the importance of people, place, provenance and pride, and replaces them all with one word – profit. It is a decision that says: ‘Actually, we don’t care how it is made, where it is made, or who makes it, as long as it sells.’

It says: ‘We are in the business solely of shifting boxes, and what these boxes contain doesn’t matter hugely, as long as they deliver profit quickly.’ It is a short-term approach which sits uneasily within Scotch.

There is a profound irony that the people who are paying the salaries and pensions of the people who make decisions such as this are the very folk who care deeply about the product, who work in distilleries and blending labs, and are out there talking and teaching, keeping the narrative evolving and fresh.

The rusted lock: Diageo’s Masters of Whisky programme opened up opportunities for education within the whisky world

Ambassadors such as the Masters talk to the people in bars and stores, who then, enthused by the story, pass on the knowledge to those of you who walk up to the counter and ask for a recommendation.

In other words, there is a chain of people involved, all of whom drive interest in – and passion for – the product. And you know what? Ultimately, the boxes sell because the Masters have built a network of fresh ambassadors. They just might not sell as quickly as a careerist executive wants them to.

In this world of reductive thinking, everything’s (and everyone’s) worth can only be measured numerically, a spreadsheet realm which blankets the messy, fascinating reality of life. This sales-oriented approach might work in the world of washing powder or biscuits, but it cannot be one which should prevail in whisky – or any drink.

It is also counter-intuitive. Scotch is facing challenges from other whisky styles, and other spirits. These, when viewed in the right way, offer Scotch huge new opportunities. It does, however, have to work harder to show consumers, bartenders and retailers why it matters, what makes it different and compelling. In other words, it needs to educate.

Diageo’s competitors must be delighted that such highly trained ambassadors are now available. Having gleaned the wider trade’s reaction to the decision, there is dismay because of the impact it will have on the category. The Masters of Whisky (like any ambassadors) weren’t just talking about Diageo brands; they were helping to build a category and were best-placed because of training – and because of their number and geographical reach – to deliver.

As the biggest player in the whisky category, there is also a moral responsibility on Diageo to take the lead on this. By turning its back on the programme, the firm is rejecting a category-building strategy at the precise time it is so badly needed – and Scotch is all the poorer for it.

The spin is that they are continuing to educate – just in a different way, with luxury experiences replacing the previous approach. The experiences might be fun – look at the balloons, listen to the cane rapping on the ground, eat the jelly, marvel at the dancers, sip the whisky – but it is no more than a tawdry facade.

There is no depth, no room for discussion, no – in a word – education. Instead, there is a show whose aims disappear into air like scented dry ice.

By reducing a whisky to ciphers, you miss the point, eliminate (or ignore) the questions, and stem the dialogue. The message becomes didactic and simplified. A successful mentoring/ambassadorial initiative does exactly the opposite. It enriches and deepens, and builds resonance over time.

I was angry when I heard the news. Now, I’m saddened because a firm which I know is staffed by people who do care deeply and profoundly about its whiskies has had this new approach foisted upon it.

I’m bewildered as to why a programme which the drinks industry in the US regards as the best in class has been scrapped, and its highly-trained members cast aside; while the callous nature of the manner in which Gregor Cattanach was told of his sacking two days after the death of his father – the man who effectively set up the scheme – will always be remembered as an unforgivably shameful act.

Whisky is long-term; it is complex, frustrating, captivating and contradictory. It takes time to understand it, it takes time and patience to explain and engage people into its weird vagaries. It takes shoe leather, knowledge and empathy.

This is what the Masters of Whisky had. All of that has been cast aside for short-term gain, and you know what? I don’t understand it.

Long-haul flights, while tedious, do at least allow some time for contemplation. On the latest, still musing on the insights which Yumi Yoshikawa gave me, my mind turned to Scotchwhisky.com, nearly 10 months on from launch. Where are we? Getting there. We’re happy with the positive feedback that has come our way while, more importantly, we have all taken on board any constructive suggestions – because it’s only by listening to those that we improve.

While I was never fooled into thinking we could please everyone all the time, what has surprised me is the amount of intemperate rage that is out there. I wrote once in a different place about how the debate around whisky has become coarsened. Sadly, nothing has altered since. We are now in the fairly remarkable position of having passionate whisky lovers and passionate whisky makers hating each other while both loving the spirit, even if that love – as Yumi pointed out – is often expressed in slightly peculiar ways.

Positions on any number of issues have become entrenched: the growth of NAS, the very existence of blends, pricing, the alleged deterioration of whisky quality – with neither side being willing to engage in reasoned debate with the other.

Small gift: Scotchwhisky.com gave away miniature bottles at its official launch during the 2015 Whisky Show in London

Oh, you want my opinion on the matter? Ok, in order...

NAS: Necessary and an opportunity for creativity. I’ve no problem with it per se as long as the new NAS expressions are as good as, or preferably better than, those they are replacing. It’s about quality. It’s always about quality.

Pricing: Yes, there are prices at the top end which baffle me. But never forget there are fantastic whiskies at affordable levels at entry and the middle ground, where many prices have barely shifted for a decade. It’s all about the quality:price ratio.

Blends: Catch yourself on. The industry is built on blends and the greatest represent the height of whisky making craftsmanship. Quality, again.

Whiskies of the old days were better: I bet some people in the ’70s said the whiskies from the ’50s were greater than the ones they were drinking. There are extraordinary old drams, but there are also some dreadful ones. Equally, there are some extraordinary drams being made today, while there are others I’d rather pass on. Guess what? It’s about quality.

Is that fence-sitting? A cop-out? I’d prefer to call it nuanced. Whatever term you prefer, it is where a site such as this has to be. It’s occasionally an uncomfortable place to be, as we will be criticised from both sides (often at the same time), but our shoulders are broad.

It is important to try to present news and analysis in a fair and unbiased fashion. Our opinions (in From The Editors) are personal, but also hopefully cogently argued. I’m happy if you disagree – my colleagues disagree with me on some points – but what won’t happen is any watering down of what we believe to be the right things to discuss, write about and debate.

We love this spirit and want to celebrate it in all its forms. We want to talk to the people who make it, serve it, teach about it and drink it. We want to show how whisky is bigger than a product or a share price; a manifestation of a culture in all of its glorious complexities and contradictions. We want more people to learn how to enjoy it.

That does not mean, however, that we will avoid asking the tough questions – though some in the industry would prefer us not to – while, hopefully, always being cognisant of the wider picture, history and context. Not writing about some of the issues surrounding Scotch would be a derogation of our duty.

Having a blinkered view of the realities of the world is what brought about the Scotch whisky crash of the late ’70s and early ’80s, from which the industry has only recently fully recovered. This means that it is absurd to think everything in the world of whisky is perfect, just as it is absurd to suggest we get things right all the time on this site.

This might irritate those who would prefer to keep things in the world of PR fluff, but we will continue to write about all aspects of whisky in an even-handed manner. Sometimes that might place us in a different position to the industry. Sometimes we might be on the wrong side of whisky maniacs.

Should that happen, we’d expect there to be a grown up debate – there is always space here for considered (but not intemperate) opinion. Maybe in some small way we can get both sides to talk in an adult fashion.

The texts started coming in from my wife when I was in Japan. ‘We’re moving to Scotland… or Ireland.' My daughter, who I had always considered a paragon of innocence, was demonstrating a remarkable mastery of Anglo-Saxon demotic with her Instagram posts. Brexit was a reality. My Japanese friends expressed amazement.

The next day, the country’s press contained interviews with industrialists, all of whom were saying they would have to consider whether to close their UK operations and move them to Europe. (Irony alert no.1: included in this were Hitachi and Nissan, both based in Sunderland, which voted Leave).

For light relief, on the flight back, I watched The Revenant. A man mauled, betrayed, left for dead trying to find a path through a new, strange and hostile landscape. No matter where you looked, there was Brexit.

What will happen? The blithe suggestion that we simply become like Norway or Switzerland is unlikely. This would necessitate that Britain would still have to pay into the EU budget and accept freedom of movement. As the Brexit campaign was rooted in the quasi-racist allegation that immigrants were stealing ‘our jobs’, you can imagine what the political repercussions of such a move might be. (Irony alert no.2: Switzerland and Norway have higher per capita levels of immigrants than the rest of the EU).

Keep calm and sail on: meandering the rocky waters post-Brexit has turned into an ironic up-stream battleAll of the EU laws which have become UK laws will have to be unravelled. Treaties will need to be renegotiated. In a perceptive piece in the London Review of Books, Sionaidh Douglas-Scott wrote: ‘Parliament will have to vote in favour of all of this, which cannot be taken for granted. There will be huge gaps in the law, because much EU law is, in the legal jargon, directly effective, which means if the treaties no longer apply, the law no longer applies. So in many important areas…the UK will have to formulate its own replacements very quickly.’

Can Britain even start to disentangle EU law from the British legal system and simultaneously renegotiate every free trade deal? No. It’s accepted that we have insufficient negotiators. The people who told us not to listen to experts now need… experts (that’s irony alert no.3 folks).

As we have been part of the EU for 40 years, we didn’t need a huge number of specialists to work on trade deals. Meanwhile (irony alert no.4), the Government’s brilliant austerity programme has cut departments to the bone so there will be insufficient civil servants to administer all of the revised regulations (nice work Gideon).

What then might this mean for Scotch? The major firms came out for Remain, as did the Scotch Whisky Association (SWA), which has been its diplomatic self since the result was announced. ‘Keep calm and sail on,’ is the message even if we are heading towards the rapids like Hugh Glass in The Revenant.

Remember, it is the EU that has helped to recently ease tariff levels and, in recent times, negotiate trade agreements for Scotch with South Korea, Vietnam and Colombia. There are ongoing negotiations with many others, including India and China. All of that will now be handed to the (non-existent) UK mediators and civil servants.

Nicola Sturgeon could be in a strong political position if she plays her post-Brexit cards right

As a result of Brexit, Scotch could be looking at higher tariffs being imposed across the EU and conceivably will have to renegotiate all others. As a piece in theFT from 22 April underlined, Britain will now have to negotiate with the EU to allow goods (such as Scotch) into Europe tariff-free, (aka the Turkish option). As the article pointed out, while Britain might want this option, there is no guarantee the rest of the EU will agree. It concluded: ‘Via the EU, Britain currently has favourable terms with at least 60 nations. These would have to be revisited.’ All of this could impact negatively on Scotch’s global presence.

What does it mean for Scotland as a whole? The only politician I can see who is emerging from the current chaos with a clear-headed strategy is Nicola Sturgeon, who has everything to gain if she handles the situation carefully. As Douglas-Scott points out: ‘In order for EU law to cease to apply domestically, provisions in the devolution statutes, such as the Scotland Act 1998, will have to be repealed to remove the requirement that these legislatures comply with EU law.

‘But the Sewel Convention states that devolved legislatures must give their consent to the repeal, and Nicola Sturgeon has made clear this will not be forthcoming.’

Could this be a bargaining chip for Sturgeon either to start negotiations to ensure Scotland (and conceivably Northern Ireland) stay in the EU, while England leaves (aka the reverse Greenland option), or to push for a second independence referendum? Perhaps. What is clear is that Brexit has further frayed the ties that bind together what is now laughably called the United Kingdom.

Scotland, it strikes me, by voting remain has already taken a huge stride down the road to full independence, while remaining within the EU. Should another referendum take place, expect the £4bn raised by the whisky industry to play a more prominent role. The ‘Scotland’s oil’ gambit has faltered. ’Scotland’s whisky’ however, has a tempting ring to it.

The Scotch whisky industry voted for Remain in both referendums. It won one. Now that momentum appears to be swinging behind Scottish independence within Europe, the industry needs to reconsider its options – and future.

Most commentators agree that all of this will take time, but that is the very thing we don’t have.